y and set off for home at a brisk pace. Her thoughts were
as active as her feet. She had seen enough in the last fifteen minutes
to furnish ample food for reflection, and she now believed she
understood her friend's strange reserve, which at times rose like a wall
between them. What strange and yet what utterly delightful people the
Stevens were! They really did remind one a little of gypsies. And what a
queer room she had been ushered into by the odd little boy named
Charlie! She smiled to herself as she contrasted her mother's homelike,
yet orderly living-room with the room she had just left, which evidently
did duty as a hall, living-room, music-room and also a playroom for
little Charlie. There were hats and coats and musical instruments, pile
upon pile of well-thumbed music, and numerous dilapidated playthings
that bore the marks of too ardent treasuring, all scattered about in
reckless confusion. No wonder Constance had fought shy of
acquaintanceships which were sure to ripen into schoolgirl visits. Poor
Constance! How dreadful it must be to have to keep house, cook the meals
and try to go to school! The Stevenses seemed to be very poor in
everything except music. She wondered how they lived. Perhaps the two
men played in orchestras. Still she had never heard anything about them
in school, where news circulated so quickly.

"I'm going to ask Constance to tell me all about it," she decided, as
she skipped up the front steps. "Perhaps I can help her in some way."

Constance rang the Deans' bell at exactly half past seven o'clock. Her
blue eyes were sparkling with joyous light, and her usually grave mouth
broke into little curves of happiness. It was to be a red-letter night
for her.

The play was a clean, wholesome drama of American home life in which the
leading part was taken by a young girl, who appeared to be scarcely
older than Marjorie and Constance. The latter sat like one entranced
during the first act, and Marjorie spoke to her twice before she heard.

"Constance," she breathed, "won't you please, please tell me all about
it?"

"About what?" counter-questioned the other girl, reddening.

"About your father and your wonderful voice, and, oh, all there is to
tell."

"Marjorie," the Mary girl's tones were strained and wistful, "do you
really think it is wonderful?"

"You will be a great singer some day," returned Marjorie, simply.

"Oh, do you believe that?" Constance clasped her hands in ecstasy. "I